


Lilies

by traumschwinge



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Flowers, Long-Distance Relationship, Love Confessions, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-09 21:42:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,530
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27993192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/traumschwinge/pseuds/traumschwinge
Summary: Geralt had been exchanging letters with Emhyr for a while now. The box that arrived one day still came as a surprise. He planted the flower bulbs anyway. Now if only he could find out why all the maids keep whispering about him...
Relationships: Emhyr var Emreis/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 10
Kudos: 124





	Lilies

**Author's Note:**

> For _7albi on Twitter. 
> 
> I posted this before on Tumblr/Pillowford but thanks to do_androids_dream ~~of electric sheep~~ I remembered I hadn't posted it here!

It was a lovely spring day. Geralt had just returned from a brief hunt around the Sansretour valley. The groom B.B. had made him employ was brushing down Roach in the warm sun in front of the stable. Geralt himself hesitated briefly before he climbed the stairs to the main house of his Corvo Bianco estate. As much as he’d like to enjoy the sun, he’d gotten used to being out of his armor in the months since he’d officially begun his semi-retirement and every time he had to put it back on, it became harder to bear the discomfort of it.

He hung his swords on their stand next to the door, followed by the chest piece of his armor and his gauntlets. He even took the moment to retie his hair. In his bedroom, he traded his shirt for a fresh one.

Finally feeling like himself again, in his loose shirt and practical trousers and boots, he turned to glance at his desk. B.B. had made it a habit to put all letters and non-pressing notes there, instead of giving the stack to Geralt upon his return. Only the really urgent letters made it to Geralt directly from B.B.’s hands.

There were two letters from Novigrad, in Pricilla’s neat handwriting and in Zoltan’s shaky angular one, another that looked like it might be from Regis, even though Geralt had never managed to identify his hand with certainty, and finally, a letter in a black envelope on an equally black parcel. Geralt rubbed his temples. No matter how many letters he got from Ciri or Emhyr, he didn’t feel like he’d ever get used to how everything had to be dyed black, at least on the outside. And, judging from the weight of the letter, it wasn’t one of the rare letters from Ciri anyway. She still didn’t find the time to write him more than a few brief lines every other month between parties and lessons and being the crown princess in general. He missed her terribly. But, weirdly enough, Emhyr did take the time to write him about Ciri. Regularly. Almost like clockwork, every week, Geralt would receive a letter.

At first, Emhyr had occasionally sent him brief notes about Ciri’s progress. Which had been weird enough. But then he’d started to ask for advice about Ciri and that had shocked Geralt so badly he’d had to sit down and stare at the letter for a good long while. He had answered it, though. Because if Emhyr was trying hard enough to ask for advice from him, Geralt could damn well help. For Ciri. He couldn’t stand the thought that she was miserable and alone in a strange city. Knowing that there was at least one person in her corner there helped. Even if it was Emhyr.

The letters had evolved from there over the past months. They no longer contented themselves to the sole topic of Ciri, but had branched out to politics, art and just general anecdotes. Emhyr had an excellent eye for detail, Geralt had always known, but more than once he’d found himself laughing at the vivid description of one harmless incident or another. There were sometimes coded messages at the end, when Emhyr was requesting Geralt’s opinion on a matter. It mostly concerned Ciri, or monsters, or Toussaint. Geralt always took the time to write back with a detailed response, sometimes after having thought about a particular problem for days.

All in all, exchanging letters with Emhyr had turned out to be surprisingly pleasant for Geralt.

A parcel, however, was new. It smelled of wet dirt and poisonous plants. He hesitated, unsure whether he should read the letter first or open the parcel. In the end, he decided to skim the letter for an explanation. There wasn’t any, only a brief postscript of “Open the parcel immediately. Plant in a shady wet spot. It’s a gift.”

Confused, Geralt finally opened the box. It contained three plants with large leaves. No blooms yet. He wasn’t even sure he’d ever seen the plant before. Not consciously, anyway. So they weren’t useful for poisons nor potions. It didn’t really make sense to him that Emhyr would send him any flowers, let alone some which Geralt didn’t know how to use.

Still, since it was a nice day and he’d meant to go back outside anyway, Geralt took the flowers. There was a spot behind the house by the stream running through the estate that was both shaded by a tree and close enough to the water for the ground to be always moist. Digging three holes and planting didn’t take long. Geralt looked over his work when he was done, nodded, washed his hands clean in the stream and went to read his letter on the bench in front of his house.

He thanked Emhyr for the plants in his response and then promptly forgot about them entirely.

A couple of weeks later, Geralt noticed that he was getting looks from some of the female servants around the estate. None of them would tell him what it was about when he asked. Finally, a part of the reason clicked when he noticed the flowers had started to bloom, with white almost-spheres hanging off a single stalk like bells. The flowers Emhyr had sent were quite beautiful, in a regal, unobtrusive kind of way. Geralt had the feeling he’d seen the bloom somewhere before, but he couldn’t quite remember.

That evening, he went through all his books on flowering plants until he found the one Emhyr had sent. And then he stared at the book, his mouth hanging open just a little, for a good long while in silent shock.

Emhyr had been so blasé about it. He hadn’t even asked how Geralt liked them. Or… anything else, really. He’d just moved on with their usual exchange of letters, because Geralt hadn’t said anything either. Because Geralt hadn’t known. He hadn’t known what he’d been given, the symbolism completely lost until the moment he’d looked up the flower and read the entry about it. Geralt felt like he was struggling to draw breath.

Lily of the Valley.

Emhyr had sent him three lilies of the valley instead of using his damn words and saying something.

Geralt tried to get angry about it, because angry was better than completely overwhelmed, and failed miserably. What would he have done if Emhyr had used plain words to explain that he liked Geralt? Probably never exchanged a single word with Emhyr, because Emhyr didn’t use plain words. There was always a hidden plan with Emhyr. There always were entire webs of lies and plans with him. Geralt wouldn’t have believed it, no matter the wording.

He still didn’t quite believe what he was reading into the flowers, even though the message was plain and simple. He just wanted it to be different because that would keep his life as boring and simple as it was. Had been. It already wasn’t simple anymore because everyone passing by could see the damn flowers growing in his garden.

He didn’t write Emhyr back that week. He felt like he owed a response to the flowers, now that he’d finally gotten the message. But he didn’t have one.

The next letter arrived as usual. It read as usual, too. Like Emhyr was giving him the option to act like there never had been a present of flowers with deep meaning.

Geralt spent another three days moping around the house, unable to form a decision.

On one hand, Emhyr was Emhyr, and that alone should be enough to make it really easy. On the other hand, Geralt had come to enjoy their conversations in form of letters. He was curious if it would be the same in person, now that they both took the time to get to know each other for who they were and weren’t, instead of their titles and personas. Ciri seemed to warm to him, too, from what little Geralt could learn in her letters.

Geralt tried to convince himself that it would be a horrible idea, that he could have just as well have stayed with Yennefer, then, because with her he at least knew what he had coming. That Vesemir would be so disappointed in him. That he wasn’t the least bit curious about how Emhyr was like in private, what he would be like once he opened up.

He sat down in the sun, by the stream, in view of the flowers, to pen his response. Try as he might to convince himself otherwise, his decision had been made. Emhyr hadn’t sent him an order, hadn’t even made any demand or request. He’d simply… held out his hand, as subtly as he could. It was on Geralt to take it or not.

That was the crux of it, wasn’t it? Geralt thought to himself. He’d never felt much like he had any choices when it came to… this. And now that he had one, he didn’t know what the fuck to do with it.

Except…

Take the chance and see where it would lead.


End file.
